Tempest in the White City

by Deeanne Gist

  He stared at a line of frilly white trim along the bottom of her skirt. He figured after all they’d been through he ought to at least be allowed to have a glimpse beneath those hems, but she didn’t offer to lift them, and he didn’t ask.

  “A woman’s invention, huh?”

  “Yes. A woman by the name of Mrs. Fenwick.”

  The nausea began its ascent once again. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to keep it down this time. “Get me a dustbin, Billy.”

  The animation fell from her face as she rushed to accommodate him.

  He tried to roll onto his side, but was as helpless as a cow in quicksand.

  Digging under his back, she rolled him onto his shoulder, then propped him against her while she reached over and held a bowl beneath his mouth. When he was finished, she eased him back, took the bowl out of the room, then returned with a cool cloth.

  Wiping his mouth, she gave him a soft smile. “Better?”

  “I’m not dying, am I?”

  “No.” She folded the rag inside out and ran it across his forehead. “You’re constipated.”

  He slid his eyes closed. “That can’t be right. How could something like that knock me so low?”

  “It’s not something to trifle with. Has it ever happened before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I can give you some immediate relief today, but until you’re defecating at least three times a week, there are a few things you’ll need to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have a tea I’d like you to drink every morning. And so you know, this came on in part because of the inactivity of your new job, not to mention sitting on that train from Texas to Illinois. I suggest you begin performing calisthenics in your room or in a gymnasium. Chicago has several I can recommend. You’ll also need to eat a nutritious diet that is easily digested. Last, you’ll need to come in for daily massages.”

  He studied her. “Massages? As in, the kind of massage you gave me a few minutes ago?”

  “No, that was an exam. I needed to see if I could feel your colon through the abdominal wall, which I could. That’s a sure sign it’s much too full. Your massage will be in the same area, but it can be done through the fabric of your trousers.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  Though her expression remained stoic, a blush crept into her cheeks.

  “Who gives the massages?” he asked. “You, or a nurse?”

  “Me.”

  He pursed his lips. “What does your husband think about your job?”

  “I’m not . . . that’s none . . .” She swept a hand up the back of her hair, but the loose tendrils floated back down the minute she lowered her arm. “You also need to quit being shy about attending to your needs. Everyone defecates. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do.”

  A slow smile lifted one corner of his lips. “You’re not married, are you?”

  “Mr. Scott, you need to be paying attention to my instructions. They are very important.”

  “Hunter. My name’s Hunter.”

  Spinning around, she whisked a sheet from a nearby chair and plopped it onto his stomach. “Remove everything from the waist down and roll onto your side.”

  His jaw slackened.

  She opened a glass-fronted cabinet with shelves full of surgical instruments and withdrew a large wooden box. Inside nestled a syringe for the likes of Paul Bunyan, along with tubes and a long ivory pipe.

  “If that’s what I think it is,” he said, “you can just put it right back in that cabinet.” But his brief respite had passed, and the pain began to build again. It didn’t matter. No way would he sit still for this.

  She turned to him, back straight, face set. “You’re having an enema, Mr. Scott. It’s the only way. Afterward, you’ll have immediate relief, and then you can do the three things I’ve recommended for a period of three months. Otherwise, it will happen again.”

  “I’m leaving.” With a Herculean effort, he pushed himself to a sitting position. The room wobbled, the blood drained from his head. Billy handed him a bowl.

  This time, she didn’t stay by his side. Instead, she wrenched open the door. “Go find the Columbian Guard who brought Mr. Scott in here and bring him to me immediately.”

  Even as he retched, her words brought relief. Carlisle would get him out of here. He’d never let this woman do what she planned. By the time he’d finished, his arms trembled, his head spun, and he could hardly remain upright.

  She carried off the bowl and returned with Carlisle.

  “Get me outta here.” Hunter still sat upright, barely.

  Carlisle scratched his chin. “The doc says you’re giving her some trouble.”

  “She tell you what she plans to do?”

  Carlisle’s gaze touched the instruments strewn across the counter. “She did.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  But his friend did nothing. Just stood there. Finally, he turned to Billy. “Would you give us a minute, doc?”

  “Certainly.” She left, her woman-invented shoes making no sound.

  The door clicked shut. Carlisle rubbed the back of his neck. “Did I ever tell you my dad’s a doctor?”

  “I don’t care. Get over here and help me up.”

  “I think you ought to do what she says.”

  “You either help me out of here, or I’ll knock your ears down so they’ll do you for wings.” A spasm curled him up like a scorpion’s tail, robbing his breath.

  Carlisle sighed. “Listen, this isn’t so bad. Lots of people have had one. And if you don’t do it, then I’ll have to work all your shifts. Besides, you’re acting as scared as a rabbit in a wolf’s mouth. It’s embarrassing.”

  Embarrassing? Carlisle wanted to talk to him about embarrassing?

  Holding Hunter’s gaze, Carlisle removed his hat and jacket, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’m going to call her in here. And when she comes, you hunt up something you can use for a backbone, because if you give her any trouble, I’m going to knock you out cold as a meat hook.”

  This could not be happening. “I’ve got more backbone in my little finger than you have in your entire spine.”

  “Then let’s get this over with.”

  But it wasn’t Billy who came back in—it was the nurse. Hunter did as he was told, and when all was finished, Carlisle kicked the nurse out while the treatment took effect. Finally, Carlisle led him back to the cot. Hunter collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

  When he woke, he was alone, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. Once he did, he threw an arm over his eyes. Death and the deuce, but he hated doctors. Still, he had no pain and didn’t hear any harp music, so the purgative must have worked.

  He tapped his ribs, looking for his watch, but his jacket and shirt had been removed, leaving him in nothing but trousers and undershirt. There was no window, so he had no way of gauging the time.

  Someone had cleaned the exam room, lit a flowery-smelling candle, and set a fresh bowl within reach on his invalid’s table.

  The diploma on the wall snagged his attention. Billy Jack. What kind of parents named their daughter Billy Jack? And what kind of woman went to college to take up a man’s profession?

  But the more he thought about it, the more he admitted to himself that Billy Jack Tate was no quack. She’d managed to diagnose his problem in a matter of minutes and to cure it without sawing, leeching, or administering electric currents. Not that he was happy with the solution she’d come up with—but still, he’d seen an awful lot worse.

  As if his thoughts had conjured her up, she opened the door and stuck her head inside. “You’re awake.”

  He didn’t reply, not sure whether to thank her or strangle her.

  Stepping into the room, she shut the door and leaned against it. “How do you feel?”

 
“Like I’ve been riding the rough string with a borrowed saddle.”

  She pushed away from the door. “What does that mean?”

  “Means I’ve felt better.”

  “Does your stomach still hurt?” Approaching the bed, she glanced at the sheet twisted about him and tugged it loose, then brought it up to his chest. “Well? Does it?”

  “I’m all right.”

  She folded the lip of the sheet over and smoothed it across him.

  “You tucking me in?”

  “You still sleepy?”

  “I need to get up. What time is it?”

  “Around eight o’clock.”

  His eyes widened. “At night?”

  “Yes.”

  Throwing off the covers, he pushed himself to a sitting position. “I’ve got to go. My shift started three hours ago.”

  She placed a hand against his arm. “Not so fast. Mr. Carlisle said he’d work your shift for you.”

  “He should have woken me.” Swinging his legs over the side, he paused. The room only spun for a few seconds, and his stomach made no objection at all.

  “You’re too weak to be doing any guarding, Mr. Scott. If something were to happen, you’d be in no shape to take it on. I have some dinner for you. Then my orders are for you to return to your barracks, drink your tea, and head right to bed.”

  He studied her. “You always work this late?”

  “If a patient needs me.”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Bananas and creamed potatoes.”

  He cringed. “Not much of a cook, are you?”

  Smiling, she removed the bowl and rolled the invalid’s table to him. “Your stomach’s had a traumatic day. We’re going to feed it something easy to digest.”

  The potatoes were cold and he hated bananas, but he cleaned his plate all the same.

  Finally, he pushed the table aside and stood. “Where are my clothes?”

  She craned back her neck to look up at him. “I didn’t remember you being so tall.”

  “All the guards are tall. Now, where’re my clothes?”

  “Right over here.” She retrieved them from a lower cabinet, then handed them to him.

  “Somebody brushed these for me,” he said.

  Glancing down, she shook out her skirts. The chatelaine no longer hung from her belt.

  He shrugged on his shirt and adjusted it against his shoulders, then began buttoning it. “Thank you for brushing them.”

  “Yes, it was, I only . . .” Looking up, she swallowed. “You’re welcome.”

  Her discomfort surprised him. She’d not so much as hesitated when she’d undressed him. But that had been different. He’d been a patient on a cot in a great deal of pain. Now, he was a half-clothed Columbian Guard, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, she was an unmarried lady doctor.

  She cleared her throat, fiddled with her hair, tugged down her sleeves, and crossed her arms.

  He pulled on his jacket. “My boots?”

  “Oh!” She shot off to another corner of the room and came back with them. “So, you’re from Texas.”

  “That’s right. Where are you from?”

  “Right here in Chicago.”

  “But you went to school in Michigan?”

  “Yes. They're the first state medical school to formally admit women.”

  With his jacket gaping open, he pulled on a boot.

  She reached out to steady him.

  “Cum laude, huh?” he asked.

  Again, she blushed. “Did I say that?”

  “You did.” He pulled on his other boot.

  The minute he finished, she released him and took a step back. “What about you? Did you go to school?”

  “I did.” Lifting his chin, he began securing the brass buttons on his jacket. “Only I graduated ‘praise the laude.’ ”

  Her laugh changed her entire face. Bright eyes. One dimple. Straight teeth. Rounded cheeks.

  “Is your home far from here?” he asked.

  Her laugh tapered off, but her smile remained intact. “It’s about a ten-mile train ride, so I’m staying at a women’s hotel built for the accommodation of the unprotected during the fair. That way, if there’s an emergency, I can be easily reached.”

  Nodding, he secured the last button and tugged down on the hem his jacket. “How do I look?”

  Her smile dissipated. She handed him a pouch of tea leaves. “You look very charming, Mr. Scott.”

  He tucked the pouch into his pocket. No sounds from outside penetrated their room. There was only her breathing, his breathing, and the sudden rushing of his blood.

  “May I walk you home?” he asked.

  “Under the circumstances, I thought perhaps I should walk you home.”

  He lifted the corner of his mouth. “Despite what you may think, I never get sick. Most of us boys from Texas have been raised with a gun in one hand and a milk bottle in the other. So, no need to worry. I’ll be fine. I feel a hundred times better already. Thank you . . . I think.”

  Her smile returned. “You’re welcome . . . I think.”

  “Are you ready to go?”

  She shook her head. “I have some paperwork yet. I don’t usually leave until a little bit after nine.”

  Nine. Good to know. That’s when his second shift of the day ended.

  He placed a hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see you tomorrow, doc.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “For my massage.” Winking, he stepped through the door and gently pulled it shut behind him.

  For more from the World’s Columbian Exposition, read an excerpt from Deeanne’s April release, It Happened at the Fair, on the next page!

  Cullen’s eyes swelled to mere slits, his roughened cheeks itched, and a sharp line separated the raw skin on his neck from

  the skin protected by his shirt. It had happened every planting season for his entire twenty-seven years, and it would happen for the next.

  He yanked off his gloves, shirt, and undershirt, worked the pump, then stuck his whole head beneath the water. The icy stream stung and soothed all at the same time. He dare not dither, though. Those cotton seeds rode on the breeze and any exposed skin would begin to itch within a day’s time.

  Rearing up, he combed his fingers through his hair. Water drizzled down his back, mingling with the sweat collecting between his shoulder blades. The hinges on the back door screen squeaked. His stepmother clomped out, her plump body listing with the weight of the pail she toted.

  “You ready to throw that out, Alice?”

  She nodded, dirty water sloshing over the sides of the bucket. “I’ve got it,” she said. “You get on inside. You know better than to be out here without a shirt on.”

  “A few more minutes won’t hurt.” Taking it from her, he retraced his steps, tossed the pail’s contents, and pumped fresh water into it.

  She stood at the door, her back holding the screen open. Her auburn bun sagged, as streaked with muted white as a song sparrow’s wing. “Come on,” she said. “Ya look a fright.”

  Pulling off a boot, he glanced inside. His father already sat at the head of their hand-hewn table, shaking out his napkin. Three plates balanced across its slightly slanted surface. The table had been Cullen’s first attempt at making a real piece of furniture. He’d presented it to his mother on his eleventh Christmas, prouder than any rooster in the hen house.

  By the time he realized her other table was not only level but nicer, she’d already passed away. She’d never let on, though—just stroked it as if it were made of mahogany and asked Dad if he didn’t think it was the grandest table he’d ever seen. Dad would give Cullen a wink and agree that it surely was. To this day, Cullen didn’t know what had happened to their good table.

  “Ya gonna stand out there all day or cm in so
we can eat?” Dad tucked a napkin into the collarless neckline beneath his bushy black beard.

  “Coming.” Dropping his boots outside, he stepped in, plucked an undershirt from the wall peg, and pulled it over his head. At least his arms and chest still held a healthy glow. Two strips of startling white skin dissected his coppery torso, delineating the spots where his suspenders rode. Going shirtless during the plowing was not a problem, it was the planting, weeding, and harvesting that bothered him most. “Smells good, Alice.”

  The door banged shut behind her. “Made ya some bean kttl soup.”

  He suppressed a cringe. Bean kettle soup. Again. It was the third time in as many weeks.

  Shrugging into a shirt, he secured the buttons, snapped his suspenders into place, scraped back his chair, and froze. A letter from the National Commission of the World’s Columbian Exposition sat beside his plate. “What’s that?”

  Dad scratched the back of his head, fluffing his wiry curls, the same black color as Cullen’s.

  “Yer the reader in the family,” he said.

  Cullen jerked his gaze to Dad’s. “Why’s it addressed to me?”

  Alice plopped a cast-iron pot on the table. Dad handed her his bowl.

  “It’s been opened.” Cullen lowered himself into his chair, being careful to keep his hands clear of the table and envelope.

  “I had Luther read it to me,” Dad said.

  If the store clerk had read it, then the whole county would know of its contents by now. Everybody but Cullen, that is.

  “What did it say?” he asked.

  Alice served up bowls for the three of them.

  “Accordin’ to Lthr, it said you’ve been accepted as an exhibitor at the World’s Fair.”

  He wheezed in a breath, his swollen airways in as bad a shape as his face. “An exhibitor? Of what?”

  “An automatic fire sprinkler system.”

  A prickling sensation began behind his eyes. “How did they find out about my sprinkler system?”

  “I told ’em.” Dad took a spoonful of soup, chewed the ham, and swallowed.